


Terms of Endearment

by Butterfly_Beat



Series: Semantics [3]
Category: Were the World Mine (2008)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-19
Updated: 2011-11-19
Packaged: 2017-10-26 06:49:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/280009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Butterfly_Beat/pseuds/Butterfly_Beat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Freshman year = Highly Overrated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Terms of Endearment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hllangel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hllangel/gifts).



> As always, this is fiction, ergo, not fact.
> 
> Third in the fic series that emerged after I spent way too long driving around the Midwest after watching the film “Were the World Mine”. Props to Hllangel for encouragement & well-intentioned nagging.
> 
> Originally published elsewhere in August, 2009. There will eventually be a second chapter.
> 
> From a Warnings Standpoint: This fic references hazing practices that involve both moderate degrees of violence and high levels of alcohol consumption.

**Author’s Note (II):** Unlike Northwestern, Boston College's Rugby website _sucks_ at providing useful information - we’re talking levels approaching dead rat through a straw. As a result, I took some liberties. If you attend/attended BC and I've mucked things up when it comes to your ruggers, I do apologize. Also, I have it on good authority that the phrase “Our drinking team has a rugby problem” is one that is bandied about in the real world, and not just a bad joke.

\- - - - -

Getting placed on the "B" Team (not a B side, they had enough players to allow for a full second-tier team), though, that stung. When the team breakdowns were posted, the coach told them that he'd re-assess over the winter break, and not before. Jon could understand, to a degree - the team took all-comers, as long as you were willing to work hard, and if the rosters were right there had been over eighty players who'd signed on for the 07-08 season. A second team, competing against D2 schools made sense, he just hadn't expected to land on it. Even as a freshman at Morgan Hill he'd made Varsity.

When the team match schedules went up a few weeks later, he found he didn't mind being on the B team quite so much. While technically the A team represented the school, and was the only team representing the school on the rugby pitch, the coach set the B team up for scrimmages against regional D2 schools, more or less off the books. It was a win-win situation. The schedules went up while Jon was in the showers, which was an unexpected blessing because it meant that for once his towel didn't get soaked in the crossfire while fifty guys all tried to shower at once (it never worked, but that didn't keep them from trying). By the time he wandered out to get a look, all of the A team and half of the B team had cleared out of the central locker area, leaving a handful of his unfortunate compatriots getting dressed and talking quietly amongst themselves. He'd forgotten how much effort it took to make friends.

First was the A team schedule, no surprise there. Dartmouth, Harvard, Northeastern, UConn - big names, a few of which had been on his application list, a few of which had very politely asked him to wait a few weeks. The surprise came when he lifted the page and found UMass Amherst at the top of the B team list. He quickly scanned the page, trying to confirm whether it would be home or away, finally discovering the key at the bottom of the list. "Score!" Not bothering to read through the rest of the season, Jon crossed back to his locker and dug around until he found his cell phone. His call went straight to Timothy's voicemail, and he remembered that it was a Tuesday, which meant Timothy was still in Freshman Composition. He waited through the familiar message, drumming his fingers against the side of his locker as he waited for the beep.

"Hey, bright eyes. Got some good news. Season starts in a few weeks, and the first match is against UMass Amherst. Looks like I'll be getting out to visit sooner than we thought. Call me when you get out of class, we'll work it out. And just in case you've forgotten, I still love you." Ending the call, Jon checked his watch and confirmed that it would be at least another hour until Timothy got out of class, and that was assuming that he'd taken his cell phone with him, otherwise it might be closer to two hours. Just enough time to grab something to eat and head back to his room and get started on his reading for Western Civ. He packed as he mentally adjusted his schedule and tried to remember what exactly it was he was supposed to be reading for Western Civ this week, anyway.

His careful planning was interrupted by one of the guys who were hanging out at the far end of the row of lockers. "Hey, Cordon. No cell phones in the locker room, man."

Jon froze, because he'd completely forgotten, but they'd made sort of a big deal about it when he'd done orientation. "Fuck." He turned to look at the guy, definitely an upperclassman, wondering just exactly how much trouble he was in. "I am _so_ sorry. I didn't-"

"No sweat, kid. Everyone forgets once in a while, just don't make a habit of it. Coach sees you, he'll have you doing sprints into next year, and that's just for the warm up."

Jon winced at that lovely image. "Right. Um, thanks for the heads up."

The upperclassman held out a hand. "I'm Karl, this is Pete and that's James. You're on B Team, which means you're one of mine. Bad for my reputation if you get busted over nothing. Gotta save it for the times when it's really worth it, you know what I'm saying?"

"I think I might have an idea." Jon shook his hand, and nodded to Pete and James who were leaning against the lockers and studying him thoughtfully.

Karl nodded, as if something had just been settled. "So, you've got a friend at UMass, I take it?"

Jon smiled, knew he probably looked like an idiot but couldn't really help it. Five months, and he still couldn't believe things had worked out the way they had. "You could say that."

"So it's not just a friend. Old lady, maybe? Got a little woman who's still hanging in there from high school?"

Jonathon laughed at that, unable to help himself, and just laughed harder when Pete reached over and smacked Karl hard enough to bruise. "Don't mind Karl, he likes to pretend he's all 'tough homeboy,' even though he's a legacy student. He's been out three years, and he's still rebelling against those nuns at Holy Cross. It was Jonathon, right?”

Jon nodded. “Jonathon Cordon.”

“How long you been playing?” Pete crossed his arms across his chest, obviously taking over the conversation.

“Um, four years, give or take. I picked it up freshman year of high school.”

“Let me guess, your team were division champs by the time you graduated? Or state champs, whatever it was for your school.”

Jon blinked at the unexpected, if accurate, presumption. “Yeah, so?”

“I thought so. You play like you're used to winning. Hell, from what I've seen, you probably should have made the A team, but Coach is old-school like that. Don't take it personally.”

“I didn't plan to.” Jon shifted, wincing as a bruise on his back made contact with the edge of his locker. That was the downside of rugby, and it could be a doozy. “Look, guys, I appreciate the introductions. I'm sure you're all great guys, and I have every intention of wiping the floor with Umass and BU and whoever else was on that schedule. But right now, I've got a shitload of homework sitting in my dorm room that's not going to do itself, and a scholarship that requires me to actually do it. So, not to be rude, but is there a point to this?”

“Fair enough. Just checking out the new talent, that's all. Hang around long enough, it starts to come with the territory.” Karl pushed himself to his feet, leaning over to grab his own duffel bag. “Can't fault a man for having his priorities in order. I'm going to go and hit the cafeteria while there's still something edible left. You have a good evening, Jonathon Cordon.”

Karl headed for the door, the other two trailing behind him, and it only took a moment for Jonathon to regret the sharpness of his words. Gathering up his bag and jacket, he slammed his locker and jogged after them. “Hey, guys? Look, I didn't mean-”

James glanced back, expression amused. “Don't worry about it. Karl's a psych major, although I'm pretty sure he's got a minor in guilt trips. Come on, we've always got room for one more. We'll tell you about the _real_ meaning of B team.”

* * *

By the time Timothy called back, two hours later, Jon's B-Team "introduction" had migrated from the cafeteria to a bar called the Crow's Nest a few blocks from campus where a B-Team alumnus happened to work. When Jon saw the name on the caller ID, he excused himself from the table they'd managed to commandeer and stepped outside into the Indian Summer evening and its relative quiet.

"Hey there."

"Hey, yourself. I just got your message. How soon is soon?"

"How does two weeks sound?"

"Way, way too fucking long."

Jon chuckled, the sound rich and full. "Better than four, though. God, I miss you."

"I miss you, too. How was class?"

"Long, boring. Practice was just long and painful, so at least my life is symmetrical right now."

"You know, no one said you _had_ to play rugby in college..."

"Oh, give me a break. You know you like watching me play just as much as I like playing."

As Jon expected, Timothy opted to change the subject rather than respond to the observation. "So, I heard that Frankie and Max broke up."

The door to the bar swung open, and Jon stepped out of the flow of human traffic. "That was fast. Didn't they just get back together a few weeks ago?"

"You know how those two are. Up and down, up and down. I give it a week."

Jonathon was prevented from responding by a hand on his shoulder, and turned to find James. "We wondered what had happened to you. Come back in, Karl just ordered a round of shots. And tell your girlfriend I said 'Hi'." James was gone before Jon could point out that no, he really didn't need a shot of _anything_ that the unofficial team captain might have ordered for the table. On the other end of the line, Timothy had grown silent.

"Sorry about that, I-"

"Jon, where are you?"

Jon sighed, because this was _not_ something he'd wanted to talk about tonight, if at all. "A place called the Crow's Nest, and yes, it's a bar."

"What the fuck, Jon? I thought you said you were cutting down on the drinking."

"Look, I meant what I said, I-"

"You what? If it's rugby-related it doesn't count? Sorry, Jon. That one didn't work the first time you tried it. I know you think you know what you're doing, but-"

"God, Timothy, could you give me two seconds to explain? Yes, I'm at a bar. Drinking a fucking _Coke_. A bunch of my teammates invited me out to explain some things. I'm not going to get myself arrested three weeks into school, so relax already."

There was a long pause, and Jon sighed. "Look, the drinking bothers you. I get it. That's why it's a coke and not something else."

"Fine. You say it's just a coke, it's just a coke. I'm just... I'm sorry. Look, it's been a long day. You go back into wherever, hang out with your friends. I'll see you online tonight, okay?"

"Anything I can do?"

"Not from a hundred miles away. Save it for the visit. I have a feeling we're both going to need it."

"Right." Jon swallowed hard, leaning back against the brick wall of the bar. "Look, I love you. I'll talk to you soon, okay?"

"Love you, too, Jon. Don't stay out too late."

"Night, mom."

Jonathon ended the call, shifting his stance so that his shoulders settled more comfortably against the brick. He was still standing there twenty minutes later when James came out looking for him a second time.

* * *

"Hey, Cordon!"

Jonathon turned, shifting his bag out of the way as one of the other players pushed past him and out the door. "Yeah?"

"Heard you got yourself a honey."

Jon smiled, as much at the images the comment raised as at the comment itself. "Something like that. Why, did you need me to set you up?"

"I'm doing just fine on my own, rookie, don't you worry. I don't know if Karl told you, but on the B Team we have this tradition. First match of the season's always here, and then my parents host a BBQ afterward."

"Um, okay."

"It's a 'welcome to the team' kind of thing. Directions went out yesterday, but I never heard back so I thought I'd mention in."

Jon reached up and ran a hand through his hair sheepishly. He and Tim hadn't exactly had a lot of time for the practicalities over the last twenty-four hours. "Thanks, Eric. I appreciate-"

"Anyway, what I _meant_ to say was that if you've got a girl up here, you might as well bring her along."

"Look, I appreciate the offer, but we kind of already had plans for the evening."

Eric wave off the protests. "So you leave early, big deal. Things kick off around six. The email's got the landline for the house, just call if you get lost." Eric didn't bother waiting for Jon to respond, turning back to his previous conversation with one of the other upperclassmen. Jon was left floundering, finally giving up and just leaving to break the bad news to Timothy. He'd deal with the whole 'girlfriend' misunderstanding later.

* * *

"I don't think this is such a good a idea."

Jon rolled his eyes, but waited to respond until he'd shifted into third. "You've said."

"Jonathon, I'm serious."

"I know. But this is important for me." Jon turned left onto a slightly-wider-than-two-lane road, and started watching for the numbers on the mailboxes. "Look for 2717."

"It'll be on the right. I'm not saying don't hang out with these guys, it's just..." Timothy sighed, looking out the window and watching the numbers slowly scroll up. "Look, they don't know that you're gay. Maybe you should wait a little while until you break the news."

Jon's grip on the gear shift tightened. "What makes you think they don't know?"

"Because when you called me from that bar, they called me your girlfriend."

"Maybe I didn't correct James then, that's true." He turned off the main road onto a driveway that was almost as wide, other cars visible closer to the house. "Maybe I did want to wait a little while, just like you said. But they invited me to this, they let me on their team, and I'm not going to hide the fact that I'm in love with you." He parked, turning the car off and leaning over to press a gentle kiss to Timothy's lips.

"Hm." Jon loved the way his lover's eyes always slipped closed when they kissed, like it was something to be savoured. "Are you sure we can't just go back to the dorm? My roommate's gone until tomorrow night, and I'm sure it would be more interesting than a boring old rugby mixer."

Jon laughed, reaching up to trail his fingers along the edge of Timothy's jaw. "This won't last too long, don't worry. Nothing like one of Cooper's parties. We'll go in, we'll spend an hour being polite and score a free meal, and then we'll go back to your place and you can make good on that promise."

Timothy sighed, catching Jon's hand and folding his fingers around it. "Last chance. You really sure you want to out yourself this early in the season?"

Jon brushed a kiss against Timothy's knuckles. "They'll get over it."

Timothy's laugh was light on the humor, but he acceded the argument. "Your call, they're your friends."

Jon sighed, and released Timothy's hand in favor of unbuckling his seatbelt. "I'll make you a deal. Come on in, make an attempt to get along, and we'll leave when you say so. Okay?"

Timothy leaned over, guiding Jon back into another kiss. "Thank you." He took a deep breath and released it slowly. "Right. Shall we?"

"Definitely." Jon grinned, stepping out and stretching until his back cracked. Once Timothy had followed suit, albeit less enthusiastically, Jon placed a hand at his back and dragged him along to the door. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Timothy reconsidering his decision to give in quite so easily. "Oh, for fuck's sake, his father teaches at Smith, okay? And I know full well that anyone who tries to beat you up is going to have a hell of a fight, so just relax already."

Timothy's response was cut off by the appearance of Eric as the front door swung open. "Cordon, man, you made it! Was beginning to think I was going to owe Karl that twenty bucks, after all."

Jon grinned, because even a month into life on the B Team, Eric's habit of betting on the small and inconsequential had proven itself something resembling legendary. "Your life is just one big tragedy in the making."

Eric's look of long-suffering tolerance was quickly replaced by curiosity. "My life is fucking awesome, thank you very much. I take it 'already have plans' blew you off?"

Jon swallowed hard, and glanced over at Timothy before responding. "Actually, this _is_ my 'already had plans'." He replaced his hand at the base of Timothy's spine. "Eric, this is my boyfriend, Timothy. Timothy, Eric."

Eric blinked for a moment, then extended a hand in greeting. "Pleased to meet you. I have to admit, you're taller than I was expecting." Eric turned, leading the way back into the house. "Everyone's out back, more or less. My brother Brian's taken over the grill - it's his _thing_ , don't ask - so there should be meat and meat-like products up soon. Coolers by the side door have drinks, all kinds, just leave your keys in the bowl if you're hitting the booze. Most of the team's already out there, which reminds me - there's Icy-Hot, Aspirin, and Ibuprofen in the bathroom at the end of the hall. Ice is in the freezer, along with gelpaks. Snag anything you need, and give me a yell when you leave just in case the house burns down later."

With that, Eric was gone, leaving a somewhat shell-shocked Timothy and Jonathon in his wake.

"Well, that was anticlimactic."

Timothy gave a shaky laugh, leaning further into Jon's touch. "Let's just say I've seen worse, but then, the night is hardly over."

Jon also learned the hard way that there was a distinct downside to cutting down on his average alcohol consumption. After six months of sticking to pop (more or less) at the parties, his tolerance was not what it had been. By the time he was on his second glass of whatever was in the sketchy punch bowl (lighter fluid, maybe?), his memories fizzled and died rather spectacularly. The only thing he could remember distinctly was that they'd made an unexpected stop by the side of the road so he could clear the excess alcohol out of his system the old fashioned way. Timothy was, to put it bluntly, not amused. Jon woke up the next morning on the floor next to Timothy's bed, aching from a combination of post-rugby syndrome, dehydration, and the fact that the floor was solid concrete under a quarter of an inch of industrial carpet.

The morning itself was awkward, in a way that things hadn't been between them before. There wasn't enough Advil in the world to make Jon's head stop hurting, never mind his bad shoulder. His physical condition, not quite but _almost_ all his own fault, was exacerbated by Timothy's lack of willingness to just blow up and get the unpleasant shit over with. Instead, he was quiet, ready with a glass of water and a bottle of pills when Jon woke, but without his customary smile. Jon knew that Timothy was touchy when it came to drinking. It had become enough of an issue over the summer that Jon had asked once if his father had been an alcoholic. According to Timothy, he wasn't, but that was the one drawback to falling in love with someone before you really knew them - there was only so much that Jon knew about Timothy's past, and there were gaps large enough to lose a planet or three sprinkled throughout Jon's mental map of Timothy's life. Timothy's exact words on the topic had been:

"He drank, sure, but that wasn't what made him an asshole. He didn't get drunk and beat me, if that's what you're asking. You know that saying 'in vino veritas'? Sometimes, you don't want to know the truth." There was something nasty lurking underneath the calm words, dark and bitter enough that Jon never brought the issue up again. There were worse things than a few punches, and even though he loved Timothy, there were some things Jon just wasn't going to force him to explain. Timothy was right about that, at least - sometimes, you were better off _not_ knowing the whole story.

* * *

It took a few weeks, but things settled back down and the issues surrounding the rugby BBQ were, if not forgotten, certainly laid to rest. Because Jon _did_ understand where Timothy was coming from, and while the standing joke was that "The Drinking Team has a rugby problem", he didn't have either the time or the cash to join in with the regularly scheduled bar nights.

That being said, there are reasons that good intentions have notoriously bad results. The night after their first match at St John's, Jon was pulled out of bed (literally) by two members of the A Team, blindfolded, shoved into the backseat of someone's car with at least two other guys (which, in retrospect, he would admit was better than the trunk; the stories some of his friends in frats told were just _ugly_ ), and subjected to far more Nine Inch Nails than he ever really wanted to hear again before they reached wherever they were going.

The rest of the morning, and he knew it was morning because the sprinkler system went off at 4AM (and _fuck_ was it cold), was a mass of pain, frustration, and alcohol. Jon knew the basic science behind these kinds of things; it was the reason he'd decided he wasn't going to join a frat, even though his father had pressed him to shoot for one of the academic houses. If you wanted to play, to be a part of the team, you didn't say no during indoct. So when the gatorade shots were passed around, he drank. When they went around again, he drank. When the A Team members started shouting out drills, he ran and passed as well as he could in the wet grass with clumsy hands. By the time the fourth round of shots circulated, the insults had started. Everyone was frustrated, uncoordinated due to exhaustion and the ethanol running through their veins, missing passes they should have been able to catch in their sleep as the BC veterans ran circles around them. Some of the very same guys who had smiled and shaken Timothy's hand at the barbecue, making small talk about classes and campus differences, now made comments about the 'fucking fag' and glared openly at Jon as if it was his fault that they were out there in the first place.

Jon wanted to pick the fight, but he didn't. One of the 'rules' that the A Team captain had outlined earlier in the night was that the team didn't fight amongst their own. The BC Ruggers had a reputation to maintain, and it included things like team unity and a notable lack of deaths due to alcohol poisoning. So he just kept his head down, drank when he was told to, and tried desperately to remember the names of his fellow players after they'd been formed into a side to square off against the veteran upperclassmen.

* * *

Jon woke up the next morning in a markedly familiar position - on the floor next to his bed, half-wrapped in a sheet and hurting badly enough he wouldn't have cared if the apocalypse had been going on next door. Muttering under his breath, and trying very hard not to think about what exactly his mouth tasted like at the moment, he forced himself up into a sitting position while he tried to remember how he'd ended up on the floor this time. His attempt at tracking backwards through the previous evening's activities - something which was proving damn near futile, which was more than a little disconcerting - was interrupted by a noise coming from his bed. Jon turned, the movement slow so as to keep his stomach from anything violently unpleasant. What he found undercut his earlier intent, the sight of one of his teammates - a _naked_ teammate, by all appearances - lying in his bed had him stumbling for the bathroom before the image had finished processing.

After the dry heaves had stopped, he rested his forehead against the side of the stall and tried desperately to remember what had happened after the start of the scrimmage that morning. All he got for his troubles was an increase in the pounding behind his eyes and another round of dry heaves. He couldn't believe that he would have cheated on Timothy - he loved him, with an almost frightening intensity. But Josh had been lying in his bed, bare-chested and loose-limbed, and that hole in his memory was becoming more terrifying with each attempt to fill the void.

The one piece of good fortune was that it was a Sunday, which meant that the dorm was all but dead at ten o'clock in the morning. After several deep breaths and an almost-successful attempt at talking himself out of a panic attack, Jon pulled himself together enough to rinse his mouth out and return to his room. Josh was still asleep, and from the look of him would be for a while longer. Jonathon winced at the state of the sheets, Josh's muddy feet sticking out down at the foot of the bed; no matter what might or might not have occurred, he was going to have to do laundry regardless. After a moment of debate, Jon gathered his things and returned to the bathroom to shower. While the hot water did nothing to calm the anxiety currently knotting his stomach, it did help with the various aches and pains that inevitably followed a rugby match. In a mixed blessing, his roommate was gone for the weekend due to an obligation with the marching band somewhere in Vermont.

Clean, shaved, and dressed, Jon did the only thing he could think of under the circumstances. He slunk off to the library to hide himself in a back corner and do the next three weeks worth of Western Civ reading. He'd never been one to talk things out, which was probably the only reason why he didn't immediately reach for his cell phone after realizing just what kind of a mess he might-or-might-not be in. That, and he wasn't sure whom he could talk about it with that wouldn't either tell Timothy or simply lecture him on his stupidity; if he wanted the lecture, he didn't need to go anywhere outside of his own brain, thank you very much. By the time he dug the thing out to check the time that evening, he'd managed to accrue several voicemails - two from Timothy, which he immediately skipped, and one from Cooper wanting to compare notes on their respective matches that weekend.

Being enough of a strategist to acknowledge that there was a time when you bit the bullet and did the unpleasant, Jon cued up his contact list and selected Cooper. Out of all of the members of the rugby team Jon still kept in touch with - all of them were on Facebook, but there were only a handful he talked to regularly - Cooper was not only the most laid back, but he was also the most likely to provide good advice where Timothy was concerned. After an initial round of pro forma protest, Cooper had accepted Jon's choice of romantic partners with a surprising lack of comment. Jon was teased, certainly, but more for the fact that he was in love and admitted it than because Timothy was a guy. After glancing around to make sure that no one was nearby to be disturbed by the call, Jon hit "send" and waited for his friend to tell him what the hell he should do.

"Cooper's House of Pain, we flay to your wishes!"

Jon slouched down in his chair, leaning his head against the wall and peering out the window as he settled in for what was likely to be one of the most unpleasant conversations he'd had since getting a cell phone. "Match went that badly, huh?"

"Worse. They fucking killed us, and we lost two guys to injuries for at least the rest of the month." Cooper sounded remarkably cheerful for someone who'd been getting ground into the pitch earlier.

"But?"

"They bumped me up to starting to fill in for one of the guys who busted his knee. So, you know, can't be too upset."

Jon laughed, glad to let his friend have a few minutes worth of bragging rights before he voiced his own, less pleasant, news. "Congratulations on the promotion. I guess that's what comes from going to a school where rugby's _not_ the number two sport."

"Look, man, that was shit luck you getting put on the B team. I don't care if it's tradition, you were fucking _good_. They're fucking idiots, and you know it."

Jon shrugged, even though he knew Cooper couldn't see him. "Not everything about B Team's bad, even if our matches don't go on record. There's good stuff, too. Or, was, maybe. I don't know."

"Jon..." There was a pause on Cooper's end of the line, and Jon knew he'd said more than he'd intended to. Yes, he wanted to tell someone, but he was having second thoughts about who, and if he should just talk to Timothy, even though that would probably end the best thing that had happened to him in forever.

"You know what, it's nothing. I've just spent the last few hours doing readings for my philosophy class."

"Bullshit. What's going on?"

Jon took a deep breath, pulling himself together in order to explain calmly and rationally, and then let it right back out again because there was just no way that any of this _was_ calm or rational or not fucking up his entire life. "Last night was indoct, and it was bad, I think. But I can't fucking remember, and this morning there was a guy in my bed, and Timothy's going to kill me or he'll just tell me to fuck off, and I shouldn't even be telling you this because this whole thing was just a big fucking messy bad idea."

"Whoa, whoa. Just, slow down a minute. Are you saying you cheated on Timothy? You? Mister 'I found Mr. Right at eighteen and fuck the rest of you'?" Cooper sounded about as disbelieving as Jon's conscience was every time he replayed the morning's events.

Jon nodded miserably, forgetting that Cooper was a thousand miles away in the Greater Chicago area. "At least, I think I did. I just, God, I wish I could fucking remember. And everything hurts, and I do mean _everything_ \- they had us running drills last night in the fucking sprinklers, doing Pop-Ups until we couldn't feel our legs."

Cooper made a sympathetic noise. "Ouch. Look, don't take this the wrong way, because I'm just trying to help. When you say everything hurts, is your ass sore?"

"I- no. Not, not like you're asking."

"OK, so that's one problem off your list. Now, you fucked things up, so you're going to have to sort this out. Does the kid you woke up with know you're gay?"

"Why does everyone say that? I mean, yeah, I'm in love with Timothy. But it's not like I've never dated girls or anything."

"Fine, so you're officially bi. What-the-fuck-ever. Does he know you fuck boys?"

"He knows I'm dating Tim, if that's what you mean. All of them do."

"Right, so track him down and ask him what he remembers. It's going to be awkward, but it'll be a hell of a lot worse if you talk to Tim before you know what actually happened."

Jon sighed, reaching up to rub the bridge of his nose. "When did you get to be some almighty relationship guru?"

"Around the time the captain of the rugby team asked me to suck his dick, okay? Now, seriously, track this guy down. Talk to him. Then talk to Tim, because you let this go too long and it's just going to get worse."

“Wait, what?” Last thing Jon had heard, Cooper had been diving into the Northwestern co-ed pool with a vengeance.

“Forget it. Stop stalling, stop freaking out, and go find out what actually happened. When's your next practice?”

“I don't know. I think there was an email about a gym conflict or something, so, um, maybe tomorrow?” Jon knew that he sounded pathetic, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He was _still_ hungover, he'd probably fucked up his love life beyond all recovery, and he as going to have to do laundry when he got back to his room because Josh had looked like he'd rolled in mud before whatever else had happened in that bed. The last thing Jon wanted to be thinking about was the rugby team, because they were the reason he was in this mess to start with. His life had been going so well up until this point, it just _wasn't fair_.

“Okay, so you'll talk to the guy tomorrow. Or you'll talk to _someone_ , but you'll get this straightened out and find out what happened. Right now, you're going to go back to your dorm room. You're going to take a handful of Advil and a couple of Benadryl, you're going to put your headphones in, and you're going to sleep through the night like nothing is wrong. Tomorrow, you're going to find out what the fuck happened last night, and then you're going to call Timothy. Because I am not putting up with this shit for the next month. Comprende?”

“I- fine.” Trust Cooper to recommend better living through pharmaceuticals, although at least Benadryl was reasonably innocuous.

Cooper sighed in exasperation, as if following Jon's train of thought from halfway across the continent. “I mean it, Jon. I know you. You'll freak out about this, you won't sleep, you'll drink way too much coffee to make it through classes, and by the time you talk to Tim – and you're not going to put it off more than another day, because he's going to start freaking out that you're not returning his calls – you're going to be so cranked up that you'll fuck things up royally.”

“Thanks for the vote of support.”

“Look, you cheated on him? You're going to be in the shit, and you'll have it coming. You didn't, you're better off sane when you talk to him. I've seen you on too much coffee, man, and it's not pretty.”

Jon winced, because he knew exactly what Cooper was talking about. “I just, what if I fuck this up, Coop? I love him, like, _really_ love him. Hell, if I didn't know that indoct was a one-time thing, I'd quit the fucking team for him. I can't lose him over this.”

“Jon, you're eighteen years old. You love him, that's awesome. But if something you can't even remember is a deal breaker, then maybe you're better off finding out now and getting the break-up over with.”

“Don't go there, Cooper. Just, don't.” Jon consciously relaxed his clenched first, reminding himself that Cooper was just trying to help. Newly discovered zen or not, Cooper's idea of a long-term relationship was two weeks, and he'd never really understood Jon's assertion that Tim was 'the one'. “Look, I've got to go.”

“Don't get your panties in a twist, man. Just stating the obvious. Call me when you get it sorted out, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Night, Coop.” Jon didn't wait for the reciprocal pleasantry, ending the call and staring at the aging library wall in the vain hope that it would solve his problems. Unfortunately, it proved markedly unhelpful.

* * *

Despite his misgivings, Jon took Cooper's advice and had passed out cold once he'd done enough laundry to put sheets back on his bed. The whole procedure of stripping and cleaning the linens had made him regret the stop by the cafeteria, but he wasn't willing to spend another night on the floor. Cooper had been right about the Benadryl, Jon dropped off and slept dreamlessly through the night, to the point where he slept straight through his alarm and woke with only fifteen minutes to make it to his morning class. That set the tone for the day, and he spent the hours before practice scrambling to keep up with his professors' sick midterm delusions of normalcy. Jon wasn't able to forget about the gaping hole in his memory, far from it, but he found that if he concentrated hard enough he could focus on his schoolwork enough to dampen the sick feeling in his stomach.

A sick feeling which came to a head before he even laid eyes on his suspected infidelity. Karl caught him in the hallway on the way into the locker rooms, and pulled him into one of the rooms normally reserved for visiting teams. "How you feeling today, Cordon?"

Jon shrugged off the arm that Karl had thrown over his shoulders. "Fine, I guess."

Karl studied him for a minute, looking him up and down. "You sure? You were pretty messed up after indoct. Took two of us to get you back to your room, and you owe Jackson a big one. He agreed to baby-sitting duty on you when you refused to puke like a good little boy. Said you took off like a bat out of hell Sunday morning."

Jon blinked, relief slowly settling into that cold place in his mind where his memories should have been. "He, um, oh. I see. I, yeah. I'll talk to him." Jon glanced around, making sure that the door behind Karl was still closed. "Listen, I can't do that again."

"Do what?"

"Drink that much. You told me that being on B team means understanding your priorities, and I do. This isn't high school, and there are things I can't afford to fuck up anymore."

Karl was silent, and for a long moment Jon was worried that he'd offended him. "I don't know what your deal is, Cordon, but you're a good player. You want to stick to soda, that's up to you. But if you're going to do that, you're right to stick to the B team."

Jon nodded. "I'll keep that in mind." He took a deep breath, finally allowing it to sink in that he _hadn't_ fucked things up. At least, not as far as he might have. He still couldn't remember, and Timothy was still going to be pissed as hell, but he could work with this. _They_ could work through this. They had to, because he wasn't letting Tim go over something this small and stupid.

* * *

Josh was easy enough to find, once Jon got into the locker room, and mollified with the promise of a free drink the next time the B team went out to the 'Nest. He even teased Jon about his insistence on taking the floor, since "it's not like it would be a new experience or anything." Jon had laughed as expected, filing away the comment along with the other references that his teammates made to the missing portions of the night. Nothing seemed to jog his memory, but at least he could build some kind of an idea of what had happened.

The just-cheated-death feeling lasted until about fifteen minutes into practice, at which point he remembered just _why_ Cooper had been so adamant that he be not-chemically-altered for the experience. Between the wind sprints, the Pop-Ups, the buddy-sprints, and the passing drills Jon was ready to call it quits long before practice was over (and he was far from alone, if the mournful looks from his teammates were any indication). By the time they got to the scrimmage portion of practice, Jon was starting to feel light-headed and trying to ignore the fact that he'd skipped lunch. By the time he staggered into the showers with the rest of the crowd, all he wanted to do was curl up and die under the hot water, and then possibly curl up and die in his bed.

Unfortunately, a beeping from his cell phone reminded him that he didn't actually live in a vacuum, and when he dug it out from under the clean clothes in his locker he found that he'd missed another three calls from Timothy. Right. _Fuck_. He'd forgotten that just because he'd (more or less) sorted things out for himself that didn't mean that they just _got better_. At the least, he owed Tim an explanation for the fact that he'd been avoiding him all weekend. And that explanation was going to have to involve Indoct, there was no way around it. Which meant another fight about the drinking, even though he was now completely onboard with Timothy's perspective on the binge-drinking issue. God, he wished he knew why this was such a big deal - everyone drank in college, even the 'good' kids. Nights like this, when he decided that maybe a phone call wasn't going to cut it and didn't bother to consider whether driving two hours after practice on an empty stomach was a good idea until he was past Worcester, Jon wished that he'd just pushed the issue and found out what it was that Timothy's father had said to him while under-the-influence.

He'd missed his chance, though, and knew it. Aside from that one late-night conversation, Timothy had steadfastly avoided talking about his father at all. According to him, he "didn't have a father," and Jon had heard just enough conversations between Tim and his mother to know that pushing the issue would get him nowhere. It was also the reason why Jon was currently hovering outside of Timothy's dorm in the pouring rain, waiting to tail-gate his way into the building, instead of sitting in his own dorm room where it was warm and dry (never mind that the parking was free). He'd told Cooper he wouldn't fuck this up, told _himself_ that he wouldn't fuck this up, and there were too many ways for things to go wrong if he tried to do this on the telephone. Even when they managed to get Skype to work, there was still too much room for misunderstanding, and the internet in the BC dorms could be sketchy at times.

After a small eternity, someone decided to brave the weather and Jon was able to get into the dorm. He could have called Timothy, but that might well have led to the very conversation he was trying so hard to have in person. Three flights of stairs and a wet jacket were a small price to pay for the chance to explain what had happened without Timothy shutting him down, and at least the climb helped him to warm back up from his time lurking by the main doors. Timothy's room was second from the end of the hall, and Jon spent a long moment paused in the stairwell reminding himself of why this was such a good idea, as opposed to a horrifically bad one. His parents had always stressed that honesty was the foundation of a good relationship, and he didn't want to be the one to torpedo what he and Timothy had. He just hoped he was doing the right thing, because otherwise he was going to drive out to Evanston and strangle Cooper to within an inch of his life.

Knock. Knock. Knock. Despite the noise of the hallway, the raps seemed to echo in Jon's ears as he lowered his hand. Before he could decide whether this really was the best course of action, however, he was committed as Timothy opened the door and blinked at him in surprise.

"Jonathon?"

"Hey."

Timothy frowned at him, expression fading quickly from surprise to concern. "What are you doing here? Is everything okay?"

"Yeah." Jon's voice was scratchy, and he cleared his throat in an attempt to normalize it. "Yeah, everything's fine. I just... You were right, okay?"

"What?"

Jon crossed his arms, and leaned against the doorframe, letting his gaze stray from Timothy to rest on the pile of books beside the bed. "I said, you were right."

Timothy shot him a confused glance, then backed away from the door to let Jon into the room. "I was right. I got that part. I just can't figure out what I was right about."

Jon stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, running a hand through his hair as he tried to pull his thoughts together. They'd seemed so nicely ordered on the drive down, but now they were a mess, and all he wanted to do was blurt out 'I didn't cheat on you!' "About the drinking. And the rugby. And, fuck, Tim, there are some things that just aren't worth screwing around with." He crossed his arms across his chest again, as much to stop the shaking that had started when he'd closed the door as for comfort. He kept his gaze on the floor, wondering idly which professor was making Tim read _All Quiet on the Western Front_.

"Jonathon..." Timothy took his time with the word, in a way that made Jon's stomach clench and his hands tighten involuntarily. Jon flinched when Timothy placed light fingers under his chin and forced him to look up. "What happened?"

"I don't _know_. That's the problem. I mean, I think I know, and I sort of know, but I don't _know_ know. It was Indoct, right? And you don't say 'no' at Indoct, that's the point. It's how things are done. But I can't fucking remember. And I already talked to Karl, and I told him I'm not doing that again - that I _can't_ do that again - but I can't take it back." Timothy's hands landed gently on Jon's shoulders, twin patches of warmth slowly easing through the damp windbreaker and the t-shirt beneath. Jon shivered in response, leaning in to rest his forehead against Tim's neck as the building wave of anxiety short-circuited in favor of the sense-memories that accompanied this particular patch of bare skin. He distantly felt the grip on his shoulders lessen and a deepening of the embrace, and for a moment he let himself pretend that everything was going to be fine. "I just wish I could _remember_."

Timothy murmured something indistinct, guiding Jon over to the bed and sitting down with him. "Let's try this again, because I'm supposed to be the drama queen in this relationship and you're starting to freak me out. What's Indoct?"

"It's this thing the team does after the first home match of the season. Makes the rookies official team members. I mean, I knew what it was, that it was going to happen. I signed on for it, right?"

Jon _had_ signed on for it, and Timothy damn well knew it, but he also knew that it was not the time for that particular discussion.

Jon took the silence for agreement. "My own fault, right? But, Timothy, I swear - if I'd realized it would be that much, that I'd black out, I would have walked away."

"You blacked out?" Timothy's grip tightened involuntarily, and Jonathon cringed.

"The last thing I remember was trying to pass the ball and slipping because the sprinklers had gone off again. I woke up on the floor in my room, no idea how I got there or why one of my teammates was sleeping in my bed." Jon shifted, pushing away from Timothy to try to read his expression. "I spent the rest of the day in the library, trying to remember what happened - that's why I didn't answer my phone. But I _still_ can't remember, and it scares the hell out of me." Jon shivered again, making an effort to keep his hands in his lap instead of fidgeting. Timothy studied him for a long moment, shadows darkening his features due to the lamp on the desk behind him. When he spoke, the words were soft and firm.

"No more." Timothy raised a hand, brushing it tenderly against the side of Jonathon's face before it settled against the side of his neck. "I love you, Jonathon. You know that. But I'm not - I can't - I _won't_ do this if you're going to screw yourself over. I won't be part of it. When we lived in Chicago, some of the kids at school used to party. Not like the rugby team, I mean _really_ party, and they had the cash for it. But every year, we'd get these speeches from the headmaster because somebody OD'd. So if you're out of it, really out of it, then fine. But I'm not going to spend the next three years waiting for a call that you're in the hospital, or that you didn't make it, because my life is fucked enough as it is. And as much as I don't want to lose you, I don't want to lose _me_ more."

Jon closed his eyes, leaning into Timothy's touch as he tried to make sense of the jumble of words. "I talked to Karl, today. You met him at the barbecue; he's captain of the B team. Told him I'm not doing that again, and if it's a problem then I'll walk away." Jon laughed lightly, amusement genuine if thin. "Apparently, I just signed myself out of contention for the A team, but B team doesn't give a rat's ass."

Jon felt rather than heard Timothy's relieved sigh. "Good. I mean, I'm sorry, but... God, Jon. I don't know if I could lose you."

"Right back at you, lover. Right back at you."

It was years later, after dozens of arguments both lesser and more valid, that Jon would learn Timothy had spent the night of the barbecue awake, watching him breathe and making sure that he didn't stop.

~ Finis Part A ~

**Author's Note:**

> My apologies to detention_level, should she ever read this. It was written before I knew you, or Boston College would be far less likely to feature quite so prominently.


End file.
